


love song for the dead of night

by whateverliesunsaid



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26921824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverliesunsaid/pseuds/whateverliesunsaid
Summary: Zuko is an outcast, a lonely rider in the desert in search of a miracle.Katara is a blessing.(western au)
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	love song for the dead of night

**Author's Note:**

> "I looked at her, as vivid in my doorway as the moon in the autumn sky. Her eyes held mine, gray and steady. It is a common saying that women are delicate creatures, flowers, eggs, anything that may be crushed in a moment’s carelessness. If I had ever believed it, I no longer did." — CIRCE, MADELINE MILLER
> 
> I listened to Orville Peck's Pony too many times while rewatching ATLA and my brain did the most of that ambitious crossover. I wrote it in a sort of manic creative rush and it absolutely shows, but i must post it now or i might never do it.

The sun sits in the middle of the oceanic sky, blazing down on his path with determination the likes of which only the fire nation seems to possess; no wonder their force source turns on him with such anger, sun borne that he is, he should’ve lived up to their pride rather than find himself cast out like this. He should’ve bowed when he had the chance, fought when he was called to. If he was lucky enough, maybe his stray, badly aimed bullet would do the trick and he would find himself anything but _this_ : an outlaw, a hermit— a lonely rider.

Except he was not lucky at all.

Except to be born (and even that was purely speculation).

* * *

Zuko bounced mindlessly in the saddle, not quite following any particular path as there were hardly any to be found, he was positively lost — is all he knew for certain. He was lost, his bottle was dangerously low and the sun gave no signs of relenting it’s persistent punishment. If the sun were to laugh, he knew it would sound like Azula, who had indeed laughed the whole time he was led out of the town, his father and uncle in tow, his face still healing from where the splinters of the bullet did most damage.

The sheriff’s son was blinded, but not blindsided. Up until this part, where they shoved him on the other side of the border, he knew the motions well enough to follow it with some dignity, but from there on out it was nothingness; it was himself, the desert and the sun.

It was an Olympian punishment, to say the least. Not only to have been cast out of the only place he had ever known and had been raised to lead, but to have lost his honor, his name and his family in the process. The taunting heat was just icing on the cake, it was just a raven pecking at his eye, at his liver, a boulder rolling down the hill.

The truly unbearable fact was the perpetuity of it all. That it was only marginally so an injustice was the worst weight he carried on his back. That it all could have turned out differently, had he been brave or silent only once…

It bore down on him heavily.

He had no choice on either now as he traipsed through the desert, courageously silent. Utterly and despicably alone.

* * *

His water bottle was empty by the time the sun came down and the cactus he cut down into looked too suspicious to risk, his horse only taking a single lick at it before refusing anymore. The night chill lashed against him almost hysterically, a laugh from above ringing in his ear as he pulled the reins behind him, hoping that if there was anybody out there looking out for him— if his mother was watching over him,— that he would find some water, somewhere.

An oasis, maybe. Something, _anything_.

It doesn’t surprise him when night comes and goes and he doesn’t. It feels like an answer to another question, instead. There was nobody out there looking out for Zuko.

Not even the moon.

* * *

He shook the ratty map in front of him another time, as if it hadn’t gotten him lost in the first place, and tried his best to find somewhere to go to, some town or another where he could do something honest, unimportant and of his own. His hopelessness would have to drift off with the sand before he got there, wherever it was that was closest, for start.

His uncle had told him forever before that if you want to go somewhere, anywhere, all you have to do is pick a direction and go for it. There is always some place in all directions, all you must do is ride the path longer than your fear would normally allow yourself to go. Zuko felt his throat strained and scratched, a lightheadedness to him that made him just brave enough to point south and tell his horse, “See that? That’s where we’re going.”

The deeply dark horse neighed and shook his silky black hair, eyes trained on Zuko despite his pointed finger. “I don’t know where it is either,” Zuko responded, “All I’m saying is we’re going.”

The horse huffed.

Okay, maybe he did have a little of that cactus water. He knew now that he should’ve trusted his gut on that one.

* * *

The sun slipped behind the horizon fast, as if it had better business on the other side than watching him going in circles in the desert and Zuko decided to set up camp where he was. A rocky hill protecting him from unwanted visitors from one side, cacti on the other.

He leaned against the warm rocks, his slim bag under his head as he dreamed rather foolishly of water. Streams of it, the sound and the freshness, the way it hit the ground and flowers grew. He fell asleep without realizing, slipping into the garden where his mother taught him the odd thing about how to keep a town fed in times of scarcity.

 _It's not all water you know_ , she would tell him, _even the sun is useful, fire is good for life_.

She dipped behind some bushes and he woke up, still watched by the full moon’s fateful gaze. The silence of the cold, immense desert made him feel almost hollow and he turned around, holding his legs against his chest, trying his best not to cry lest the moon tell on his secret until a weird repetitive sound caught his attention behind the rocks.

He hoisted himself up slowly, soundlessly and peeked through it to see a village. Not a permanent one, by the way it was all camped up for the night, but a village nonetheless. Around it, a circle of water cut through the deserted ground to make an island out of their safe haven. He rubbed his eyes, unsure of this vision and there it was, clear as the dead of night: an _oasis_.

Most importantly, water.

He picked his canteen and a bowl, the biggest one he had and set out to get as much of it as he could without tipping them off to his presence. Slid down the side of the rocks, hid behind an odd, leafless tree and then lurched for it, dreadful and thirsty, face first into the clear stream.

If he did cry, it was pure relief and he was simply too busy to notice it. He washed his face, his hands, drank until he felt sick and dipped his canteen into the stream when she made herself known.

It was nothing but the shuffling of the sand, but it was an invitation of sorts. She stood before him, tall, gilded by the moonlight, wide blue eyes set on him as if he was being evaluated far more than he could expect. The animal in him hustles himself into a squat, halfway to fleeing, but too dependent on the resource between them to actually do it. Their silence stands as a blanket over him, covering every sensation, making everything feel muffled and heavy. His limbs, his ears, his mouth. The whitest of all cotton, the softest silk. Not only dreamlike but dreamy, the village, the water and her watching over him under the moonlight.

She arrives at a decision of her own, drawing water from the stream with a flick of her hand that lifts it, like a whip, and works it into a puddle inside her tightly woven basket. Not once does she stop looking at him, measuring him as he watches it all happen with clear shock in his eyes. After she has her fill and he is still frozen in his stead, she breaks his reverie:

“You should fill your canteen before the sun comes up,” her voice sounds clear, though not loud, perhaps not to rouse her peers and he obeys dutifully, silently, terribly ashamed of being caught but scared of what could happen, should he turn his back on her.

“Don’t you have a horse or something?” she poses, when he doesn’t say a word. “Generally, your… type does.”

“I’m not any _type_. It’s just me.” He responds at last, through the low raspy he can muster. It’s almost belligerent, maybe even too much, but he’s owed some after all he’s been through, right? “But I do have one, it’s back there. I brought this—” his voice trails off, unsure of what to say to her who’s decidedly his own age but undoubtedly wiser than himself. “I’m going south. Where are you going?”

“Somewhere.” She responds and it sounds final, sure, _certain_. It catches his breath in the middle of his throat when he realizes they’re not on the same side as far as she’s concerned. A bitter disappointment slips into his expression and she reads it easily and quickly. “I’m sorry I said that. It's just that for so long now, whenever I would imagine the face of the enemy, it looked a lot like you.”

“Uh—” he reaches for his scar, self-conscious for the first time in a long while since he earned it. “I see.”

“Not _that_ ,” she speaks in a rush, apologetic and he dips his gaze back to his handiwork, switching the canteen to the bucket instead of creating any more embarrassment for the both of them.

“I understand, you don’t have to apologize. It’s a mark of an old mistake. I’m not proud of it but I must bear it. It can’t be healed, anyway.”

“I can try.” It sounds almost like a question when she says it, a challenge she seems keen on trying her hand on and he suspects it’s not all talk when she says it. Still, he’s puzzled by her statement, his brows furrowing when he begs the question:

“What do you mean?”

“I have… abilities.” she sounds unsure of herself for the first time since the conversation began, were it not for the basket she held he was sure she would fidget. Zuko realized then that she did look her age when the walls weren’t up so high. As they should be, for the both of them really.

He steeled himself, determined not to be played for a fool. “Clearly,” he nods towards the basket and she shakes her head, putting it down quickly to pull a little vial from a collar around her neck.

“This water has special properties, so I've been saving it for something important. I… don’t know if it’s going to work, but…”

He shakes his head at the notion that his scar is by any means important to her, or anyone other than himself. It was his curse to bear, even if the idea of being free felt unbelievably tempting. It also felt too good to be true. Too big a blessing for him, cursed child that he is.

“Why would you—“ he starts but stops when another male voice cuts through the darkness and she turns quickly to it, giving Zuko one final glance as he hustles his way back up the rocky side, a wet trail following his steps. “Katara, where are you?” the voice begets a response though it does not sound like a senior, but rather someone their own age.

He finds himself looking back only enough to see Katara’s impossible glow dipping into a tent beyond where he can see it, calling back to the voice in her clear lilt: “I’m coming!” and he follows suit by diving behind the rocks that stood between them from the start, his very own haven.

He dumps the bucket in front of the horse— who’s _delighted_ — and falls asleep considering the way her hair glistened under the moonlight. _Katara_ was her name. He turned it over and over in his mouth until it felt just right, until he woke up speaking it out loud to the curious vision of the sun.

* * *

He rose uncertain of himself, unsure that it had ever happened at all until he tripped on the bucket still full of water and a quiet joy spread through his chest knowing that for once, he might actually have followed his uncle's advice correctly and actually found what he was looking for.

It makes him proud, really. He wasn't so helpless after all, so completely alone in the universe. He used some of the water to clean his face, brushed his hat and his dusty coat quickly, his stubborn heart running leaps ahead of him as he mustered up the courage to take his horse around the hill, face them earnestly. Maybe strike up some fellowship, or even, if he's lucky, see _her_ again. When he takes the leap of faith, however, it's gone.

The stream, the village, the girl. All of it gone without a trace, not even a proof that they were ever there at all other than his full canteen. It went away without warning or fanfair, simply gone when yesterday it stood solid and full. 

He knows that it existed and refuses to doubt his memory, but all he had to show for it was the water and her name.

* * *

There isn't a night after that where the moon comes up and he doesn't wish that fate might bring her around again.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3


End file.
